


Keepsake

by plaguewind



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 08:37:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12009045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaguewind/pseuds/plaguewind
Summary: A little post-death drabble.





	Keepsake

Sometimes when no one was around, or when they weren't paying very much attention, the Lady of Winterfell would quietly slip away to her chambers and bolt the door behind her. She would sit on the edge of her bed, listening and waiting to ensure no one had followed or was coming to fetch her. Only when she was certain of her solitude would she stand from her bed and kneel before the heavy oak chest on the floor. 

It had become a ritual, an obsession, and it always had to be done exactly the same, in exactly the right order. The latch on the right of the chest would be unclasped first, then the left. She would carefully lift the lid and ease it back so that it did not fall with a loud thud. Next she would lift her stack of furs and wools and gently set them to the side. Then she would lift out the small box that had been hidden underneath and walk back to take a seat on the side of the bed. 

By that point her heart was always racing, pounding against her chest like a war drum- a rhythmic call to arms. A constant reminder of the war she was fighting within herself, though it was far too late to undo the battle that had settled it all.

Sansa Stark would take a deep breath before opening the smaller box and let it out when the lid was open. Only when the tiny object was in her hands did the pounding of her heart steady. She would run a finger over the small mockingbird, once a bright silver and kept pristinely clean, was now dark with dried blood. For some reason she had not cleaned it yet, if only to remind herself of her own crimes.

Had he deserved it? Months prior she would have insisted that he had but every time she looked at the pin she was not entirely sure anymore. Maybe it was simply that she missed him, and she did miss him. A fact that had been so hard to admit even to herself, much less anyone else, which was why no one could ever know of her ritual. 

Petyr...her warm and funny protector. She had only meant to kill Littlefinger, not Petyr. 

A tear would escape her eye, only to be followed by another. Sometimes she prayed to awaken and find it had all been a dream. Did Littlefinger deserve to die? _Yes._ And she had thought she had taken all he had to offer, that she needed him no longer because she had her family back. But oh how she had changed and she was so different from them now. It was in the quiet of her own mind that she seeked his council...yearned for it. It was in the darkest corners of her heart that she longed for one more kiss, one more devious smirk. 

Now she wondered how she was any different from the people who had turned him into Littlefinger. Now she wondered if she could have saved Petyr by simply loving him because no one ever had. 

“I guess I'll never know,” she whispered to no one, placing the small blood-caked pin back into its box. “But I miss you.”


End file.
